


The Assignment

by isadora



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2889692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isadora/pseuds/isadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn and Carrie are sent on a mission. It ends fairly unexpectedly. Not really canon, definitely doesn't factor in S4 happenings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Assignment

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the S4 finale ish, and by my guilt for what I'm doing in Stay The Night, a little bit of plotless smut. Written in an evening, please excuse any spelling or grammar mistakes :)

It’s been raining for three days now. Non-fucking-stop rain, for three days. Unrelenting. Quinn’s not a fan of rain at the best of times, but even less so when he’s spent all of those three days in meetings with people who would give him an itchy trigger finger at the best of times.

He’s angry, permanently, and he doesn’t know why. He hates the country, hates the people he’s working with, hates the work he does. But a year ago he didn’t; something has changed in that time. He has changed in that time.

He used to have all the patience in the world for the people he didn’t have to kill; he used to take his orders like a good soldier, maintain a professional facade and go home to his solitary life and paycheck. He didn’t used to care so much.

“I need you guys to sell this” says Saul from behind his beard, and in that moment Quinn wants to set the damn thing on fire. Three days and nights playing married couple with Carrie. Fuck. Beside him she stands rigid, the tension coming off her in waves. He’s not sure if her reaction is a relief or irritation to him. He doesn’t want to be in close quarters with her but that all to do with her crazy rather than his. He’s a fucking charmer, after all.

Not charming enough to change Saul’s mind though; he knows that without even trying.

Carrie probably does too but hopelessness has never stopped her from taking on a fight. Quinn stands easily, listening to her rant and rave fruitlessly at her mentor.

“I’m not changing my mind” cuts in Saul firmly, fixing her with a beady eye. “You should both go and pack.”

Carrie swears a blue streak particularly vicious even for her as she brushes past Quinn on the way out, and he raises an eyebrow at Saul, who has the nerve to look amused.

“Good luck, Peter.”

God knows he’s going to need it.

**********

They get to their hotel and she immediately wants to ask for twin beds.

“Don’t trust yourself to keep your hands off?” he asks with an overdone wink and she favours him with a disgusted look.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Quinn.”

He catches her by the arm and she swings around, pulling away from him.

“If you ask for twin beds we’ve fucked outselves already” he hisses, blocking her path to the door. “We don’t know who the mole is and the most stupid thing we can do now is to do anything that’ll make us stand out.”

She scowls but doesn’t say anything, and he cautiously lowers his arm.

“I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

His temper tweaks slightly and he takes a step closer.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Carrie. I don’t stick my dick in crazy.”

He can tell he’s hit a nerve but finds himself not really caring; her attitude is wearing on him and they still have a day and a half until the rendezvous. They both know that as newlyweds they have to stay close together and maintain a warmth in public that doesn’t come naturally to either of them.

Carrie considers a scathing response and then decides to be the better person, counts slowly backwards from ten in her head and takes a deep breath.

“Well, as long as we’re on the same page then” she says, and could kick herself for the note of vulnerability in that. Quinn is decent enough not to comment on it though; instead he busies himself in his suitcase and reappears with two rings.

“Shall we explore the area?”

Rattled, she takes the ring out of his hand and slips it on her fourth finger. The metal is new, engraved on the inside. Clearly someone has made an effort to make them look like newlyweds, she thinks. Quinn inspects his ring with a look of faint disdain but doesn’t comment and they leave together.

****

Their walk is fruitless; no clue as to who the traitor inside the organisation is; it’s beginning to look like they’ll have to wait until the rendezvous to get their man. That’s obviously not ideal; more likely to end in an open gunfight, with an injury toll and potentially losing their target. Both Carrie and Quinn are far bigger fans of a nice quiet assassination, one of the few things they have in common.

“I have a bad feeling about this” he says, kicking his shoes off and sitting down on the bed with a sigh, “Something doesn’t feel right.”

Carrie wants to mock his hunch but deep down agrees. Something about field work just gives you a sixth sense on these things.

“We’re going to have to be really careful” she says, making sure her voice stays calm, “Not do anything stupid.”

He snorts, not looking up.

“I’m not the one who’s likely to do something stupid” he says scathingly, and her temper snaps.

“I’m going out” she announces, feeling the heat rise on her cheekbones. The creak of the bedspring is her only warning before Quinn is behind her, pinning her against the wall, mouth in her ear.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot, Carrie. The last thing either of us should do is go wandering off alone.”  
She stands rigid under his hand, shoulders stiff, silent.

“I was being an asshole. Sorry.”

She shakes him off and ducks under his arm.

“Apology accepted” she mutters, and takes the armchair with her book until her heartrate has slowed and she can’t feel the heat of his breath on her ear any more.

*****

Their impasse cannot last, in a double room, and eventually he asks what she’s reading.

“Harry Potter” she says, with a quirk of her lips, self deprecating. And then, not sure why, she goes for honesty. “I envy him being able to step out of one life and into something new, something good.”

Quinn doesn’t say anything for a long moment, examining her in the half-darkness with black eyes.

“Is it that bad?” he asks eventually, voice slightly strained, and she manages a light smile.

“No, not bad. But who wouldn’t want magic?”

He huffs a laugh at that, and they share a smile.

****

They sleep fully clothed that night in the double bed, facing away from each other. Well, they lie there; sleep won’t come to Carrie; there’s a knot of anxiety in her belly that won’t let up, and she’s too hot to sleep anyway. Beside her Quinn is in a light doze, shifting occasionally and making quiet noises. He’s tense in sleep, his sharp features thrown into sharp relief by the dimmed lights.

When his movements turn into a full blown nightmare and he twists himself into the sheets, mumbling denials and clutching at his arms, she cautiously reaches a hand out and touches his head, running a hand through his hair. His movements slow, until he sinks into a deeper sleep again, breathing settled, her hand still resting against his forehead in a parody of domesticity.

We’re both damaged, Carrie thinks, as Quinn turns over again and makes a quiet snuffling sound. But maybe not broken yet.

******

Quinn wakes the next morning feeling more refreshed than he has in years, and it takes him a moment to remember what he’s doing and why he’s in a hotel room. Carrie must have already got up; the other side of the bed is cold and he can smell coffee.

He stretches luxuriously and cracks his neck, swinging his legs out of bed.

“Morning” he calls out, hoping she hasn’t been stupid enough to leave the hotel without him.

She emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed again and rubbing her hair with a towel.

“Sleep well?” he asks, and she nods with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Not bad - you?”

“Really well” he replies, and can’t quite stop the surprise in his tone, but she doesn’t comment on it.

 

*****

They sit in the hotel restaurant and eat breakfast like normal people. In a low voice and with a quirk of a smile he points out it’s the only time he thinks he’s ever seen her eating anything that didn’t have to be kept in a paper bag for convenience, and is rewarded with a genuine smile. His stomach twists oddly and he blames it on the bacon, because that’s a lot easier than the alternative.

They finish their coffee and leave the hotel, doing another scouting session. They’ve been out an hour, playing the part of tourists, when Carrie suddenly catches his hand and leans in.

“Kiss me”

He gapes at her momentarily, and in the split second he hesitates she goes on her tiptoes, wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down into a kiss.

Married couple, he twigs through the bone deep shock, we’re a fucking married couple. Newlyweds. 

He tangles his hands in Carrie’s hair, slants his mouth against hers and kisses her back for all he’s worth (top of his class in seduction school) until she pulls away. He’s gratified to see her eyes are slightly unfocussed and her cheeks flushed in a way that probably isn’t entirely to do with the cold weather.

“I think I saw someone” she says, tugging him along by the arm, “they were watching us and...yeah. Sorry.”

He feels slightly disarmed and can only shrug off her apology.

“What are we looking for?”

“Male, mid forties, around 80kg, mole on left cheek.”

“Did you see which way he went?”

She shakes her head, annoyed.

“I couldn’t keep looking; it would have looked suspicious. I had to sell this,” she gestured between the two of them. “He didn’t look again though, I don’t think he suspected us.”

Quinn turns, looks down the road. There are two paths ahead.

“We have to stay together.”

“No” she insists, shaking her head, “We don’t know which way he went, we’ll lose him.”

“He might not even be the guy” Quinn points out gently, “He could just be some weirdo looking at us.”

Carrie huffs a breath out but he knows he’s got her, and she walks down the road with him, following him left at the end. If it takes them another few minutes to release their handhold, neither of them comment on it.

They wander around the docks until darkness begins to fall, and the cold seeps into their bones.

“We should go back” Carrie sighs, dispirited, “We’ve lost him.”

Quinn hears the click of the safety being released from a gun as if in slow motion as a man appears from the shadows, unpleasant smile on his face.

“Not quite” he says, pointing the gun at Quinn, who’s painfully unarmed. “Now tell me where you’re from.”

Quinn doesn’t breathe for a long minute, until Carrie steps forward, her blonde hair glowing in the lamplight.

She’s holding a pistol, trained straight at the man’s head.

“How about you tell us where you’re from instead?” she asks, voice steady. His arm wavers.

“I’ll kill your husband.”

Carrie is right behind him now, eyes bright, and Quinn is acutely reminded of the fact that before she moved towards recruitment she was a damn good field agent.

“I’ll give you one clue” she breathes into their attacker’s ear, “He’s not my husband and I don’t care if you shoot him.”

His arm wavers again, distracted by his confusion, and Carrie is close enough to bring the butt of her pistol down sharply on the back of his head, sending him unconscious to the floor.

Quinn lets out a breath and kicks the man’s gun away.

“I’m hurt” he says, lips quirking into a smile, “You’d miss me if I was shot.”

“Don’t count on it” she retorts, “I’d have a quieter life for it.”

He laughs, and crouches down next to the man, pulling out his phone as he rifles through the pockets, digging out a driver’s license.

“I’ll call through to Langley and see what we can find on him.”

Carrie nods absently, still inspecting the site.

“Quinn” she calls softly, and he doesn’t pay attention, engrossed in patting down the man’s pockets, “Quinn, there are two sets of footsteps around the corner.”

The words seem to take hours to permeate, and for the second time in that hour time seems to slow to a trickle as he hears the shot and the splash of a body hitting the water, a gasp, a flash of blonde hair, and then there’s blood roaring in his ears. 

His phone falls to the ground, the tinny sound of the Langley operator muffled against the decking. The shooter is in one of the windows, he can see the reflection, and it’s lucky that he’s so close to the fallen man - Richard Stone according to his license - that his friend isn’t confident enough to take the shot.

Quinn is.

He doesn’t miss and is gratified to see the shooter drop gracelessly forwards and tumble lifeless out of the window, landing with an uncomfortable splat on the ground several stories down. He doesn’t have the time to check for a pulse so settles for a swift kick to the temple that will keep the man out cold if he’s not dead, disarms him and grabs his phone.

“It’s Quinn. We’re at the docks, two hostile shooters taken out. Send backup. Matheson is down.”

He drops the phone, shucks off his jacket, scarf and shirt, and dives into the freezing dock.

It’s the kind of cold that makes you think it could strip flesh from bone, the kind that burns through within seconds, that feels like being punched in the stomach. He has to gasp for air and refocus for a moment, the world spinning around him, and eventually orientates himself.

“Carrie!” he shouts, but all that comes out his a whisper, the water pressing in on him. She should be floating, he thinks, wherever she was hit. And it’s not deep. He has to find her, quickly. Light, he needs light.

The cold is preventing him from thinking straight, he realises with dismay, and panic starts to rise in his chest.

He kicks out, hard, to get his circulation moving, and as he does his foot connects with something solid, tangling into cloth.

“Carrie” he gasps, louder this time, and taking a breath submerges himself, grabbing onto whatever he can.

It takes all his strength to pull them above water, coughing and spluttering, and more again to haul her limp body onto the walkway into the dock. His breath comes out in puffs of smoke in the brisk air, cold water dripping onto her as he rolls her onto her side, first aid training coming to the fore.

She’s frozen to the touch, lips blue, barely moving but for a puff of condensation. He slaps her back, hard, and watches, breathless, as she rolls over and coughs up a lung full of water, wheezing.

“Carrie, Christ” he breathes, and pulls her into his arms, feeling her shivering bone deep. “We need to get out of here.”

Police cars are starting to show up now; he wraps his scarf around her head to try and minimise the heat loss and picks her up bridal style.

“Hold on” he breathes into her hair, “I’m going to get you warm, ok?”

She doesn’t respond but he can feel her pulse light under his hand and her breath against his neck as he approaches the police.

“Peter Quinn” he introduces himself, flashing ID, “I need to get my partner back to the hotel.”

The policeman peers at Carrie, visibly concerned.

“What happened?”

“We trailed them as part of a covert op; my partner knocked Richard here” he poked the man with his toe “over the back of his head. The second man shot at her from the window up there, and I took him out. Langley has details of Stones and they’re looking into him.”

The officer nodded, clearly cowed.  
 “What do you need us to do?”

“Keep them in custody overnight; we’ll come back tomorrow and sort out the paperwork. I can’t give you all the details I’m afraid.”

The officer nods again, throws another anxious glance at Carrie and offers them a ride back to the hotel.

“That would be extremely kind” Quinn agrees, shifting Carrie in his arms. She weighs nothing, but the weight of his and her sodden clothes is weighing down on him. 

They’re driven under blue lights to their hotel, a short drive, and he leaves the police officer to explain the trail of water he leaves up the staircase. Ironic, he thinks, carrying his fake wife over the threshold.

He takes her straight to the bathroom and turns the shower and heating on, propping a barely conscious Carrie in the shower stall as he gets rid of his wet jeans. He’s about to lose the boxers too and then decides it’s not worth the risk of castration.

Crouching down in front of her, he taps her face gently.  
 “Carrie, come on. You need to wake up.”

She’s still blue; her clothes are icy. Her pulse is weak but steady and he knows her feeling on hospitals and will avoid taking her to one as far as possible.

“Carrie” he says a bit louder, and her eyelids flutter.

“M’cold” she mumbles, leaning forwards; whether it’s exhaustion or seeking body heat he isn’t sure, but he pulls her forwards so her head is resting against his chest.

“Carrie, I need to take your clothes off to get you warmer, do you understand?”

She mumbles something unintelligable against his chest and he pulls her back, shaking her.

“I need you to tell me it’s ok to undress you” he enunciates clearly, thumbs stroking over her shoulders, and her eyes focus slightly.

“So cold” she chatters, leaning forward again.

“Carrie, please. I need your permission.”

“Y-yes” she breathes, “Help me take them off.”

The effort clearly exhausts her and her head drops back against the bathroom wall with a clunk.

“Shit” he mumbles, fingers clumsily working at her shirt buttons. “Not smooth, Peter, not smooth.”

Eventually he gives up and rips her shirt straight down the middle, buttons scattering across the bathroom floor. The steam from the shower is beginning to spread  
through the room and he just wants to be under the spray.

Carrie is a dead weight against him as he pulls her sodden jeans off and throws them in a corner, leaving her curled in his arms clad only in a black lace bra and panties. 

“Fuck” he breathes, doing his level best to remember that she’s nearly unconscious and a respected co-worker.

Once he’s manoeuvred them into the shower cubicle and closed the door he can feel his body temperature slowly warm up and tightens his grip around Carrie; wrapping his arms and legs around her to try and share body heat as they’ve always been taught. Bone deep exhaustion is upon him but he’s anxious about her lack of response, even as her body temperature rises.

It’s not until several minutes later, after he’s been comfortable to increase the water temperature, she starts to move again, slowly becoming alert.

“Carrie?”

To her credit, while she stiffens in his arms she doesn’t panic.

“Quinn?”

“Come on” he says, “You stink of the docks.”

She smiles weakly and allows him to lather shampoo into her hair. Her hair falls back against his shoulder and she makes a quiet noise that could almost have been a moan as he massages her head.

“It feels so good to be warm again” she murmurs.

“Do you remember what happened?”

He can pinpoint the minute she does; her whole body goes rigid and she shudders as though remembering the feel of the impact in the water.

“The fucker tried to shoot me.”

Something catches in his brain at that.

“If the fucker didn’t shoot you, how did you end up in the water?”

Carrie squirms, and he really wishes she wouldn’t do that when she’s pressed tightly between his legs. 

“Ok, don’t panic, but I think he did shoot me.”

Quinn panics. If he’s asked about it later he’d say he was just moving quickly, but in his heart of hearts he knows - he honest to god panics.

He leaps to his feet fast enough to make his head spin, pulls Carrie roughly into an upright position and checks her over, inch by inch, for any sign of a gunshot wound. Once her torso is clear he drops to his knees, checks her legs, not even caring about the propriety of running his hands down her thighs.

It’s not until he straightens that he notices her cradling her hand against her chest and he gently peels it away, examining the wound.

“How does it feel?”

“Fucking sore now it’s not numb” she retorts, trying to pull her hand away. “Can we please never tell anyone that I fell into the water from having my hand grazed?”

He huffs a laugh, suddenly aware of what an intimate position they’re in, virtually chest to chest under the spray with him cradling her hand between his. The colour is returning to Carrie’s cheeks and she’s looking up at him with those big fucking eyes that do bad things to his self control. Drops of water trickle over her collarbone and down into her cleavage and he finds his mouth suddenly dry, and the twist in his stomach from breakfast is back with a vengeance.

“We should get that hand looked at” he says, trying to back away, and as he does her knees buckle and she slides to the floor again, coming suddenly and unfortunately face to face with his visible interest in the situation.

An awkward silence stretches for a few moments until they both speak at the same time

“I’m so..”

“It doesn’t...”

They both laugh nervously and he leans down to help her up, keeping his hips carefully backwards.

She looks up at him, an odd softness in her expression as she steps around him, using the rail for balance.

“Quinn, we’re nearly naked in a shower after a near death experience. It’s absolutely fine. It’s physiology. And you made your views on sticking your dick in crazy perfectly clear.”

He should let her go, he thinks. He should laugh it off.

He shouldn’t catch her by the arm.

He does.

“I don’t think you’re crazy” he says, fixing her with a gaze, and she has no response to that.

“C’mere. Let’s get dried off.”

There’s only one towel; he tries to give her first use but she insists on sharing it to conserve body heat and he can’t argue. He’s come that close to losing her tonight that he just doesn’t want to let her go. She wraps up in a huge fluffy bathrobe and sits on the bed, facing him, looking suddenly younger than he remembers.

“Let me get a first aid kit” he says, “And some food.”

It’s a testament to how exhausted she is that she doesn’t argue, and he calls down to reception who have clearly been briefed and don’t seem surprised by either request. They arrive with a surprisingly well stocked first aid kit and bowls of steaming hot soup and bread rolls and two glasses of brandy.

Quinn bends over Carrie’s hand, stitching together the torn skin and bandaging it quickly but effectively. Without even thinking he drops a kiss on the inside of her wrist, the skin soft and warm.

“How’re you feeling?”

She nods, eyes unreadable.

“I’m good.”

“Eat something?”

She nods, and sips at one of the bowls of soup. As soon as he starts on the bread he realises how hungry he is and wolfs it down, followed by the brandy which clears a warming path down his throat.

Carrie sips at her drink slowly and then downs the lot with a pleased sigh and curls in further on herself.

“Cold?”

She shakes her head but shivers fractionally and he shifts closer, raising his arm. It’s only a slight surprise when she tucks her knees in towards him and settles under his arm, head resting against his chest.

“Thank you” she says softly, and he frowns.

“For what?”

“Today. Everything.”

That fucking twist in his gut again.

He tightens his arm around her and moves her half-finished bowl of soup out of the way before she falls asleep.

“I need to call into Langley quickly before we sleep” he says, and she nods sleepily, barely moving as he gropes for his phone. The call is quick and to the point; they’ll pick up the pieces tomorrow from the local police station but the two that they took down have been confirmed as the moles. Mission complete. Carrie is barely conscious when he tells her; as soon as he turns down the lights she sighs, turns away and falls asleep and he tries to pretend that he doesn’t wish she was wrapped around him before sleep takes him too.

 

He wakes in the morning warm and content, winter sun streaming in through the . At some point during the night Carrie has ended up in his arms; her hair is faintly damp and smelling of shampoo and her bathrobe has slid off her shoulder, leaving him with a tease of smooth pale skin.

As though feeling his gaze, she wakes sleepily in stages, eyes focussing on him gradually. He’s expecting her to blush at their closeness, to jump away, but she snuggles into the duvet instead, fingers tracing over his side.

“What happened?” she asks, and it takes him a moment to realise she’s tracing over the scar of an old gun wound.

He has a policy of not discussing previous missions and intends to deflect her but something about the situation; the warm, soft bed, her eyes on him, the feel of her touch on his side; something makes him answer honestly.

“It was one of my first overseas missions. I was an idiot, thought I could go alone, and got shot in the side. A good man, a friend, died helping extract me.”

Carrie nods wordlessly, tracing the ridge of the scar with her fingertips. It feels nice, alien but nice.

“I remember this one” she comments, eyes cast down, as her fingers slide across the waistband of his boxers to the more recent wound, the one that very nearly killed him. He catches her hand, strokes a thumb over her palm.

“I remember one” he counters, touching the tops of his fingers to her shoulder. “I remember fucking putting it there.”

“You made the right call” she says softly, “You did. I would have done the same.”

“I shot you.”

“I had to be stopped. I was going to blow the whole operation.”

Hearing the certainty in her voice lifts a weight he hadn’t known he was carrying and he exhales, still frowning slightly.

“Peter,” she touches his face, drawing his eyes to hers, “I promise you made the right call.”

She leans in, presses her lips to the corner of his mouth for a heartbeat, and then pulls away quickly, cheeks flushed.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t...”

His self control snaps and he pulls her to him, one arm snaking around her waist and the other tangling in her hair as he crushes their mouths together. It’s messy, brutal and hot as hell; he’s most of the way to hard already, pulse thrumming in his veins as he slants his mouth against hers, tongues sliding and teeth clashing.

Carrie moans into his mouth and it’s honest to god one of the most erotic things he’s ever heard. There’s no ulterior motive, no complication (yet) - just life affirming attraction and sparks. His hands roam freely up and down her body, tracing her curves. She’s so fucking smooth and lean under his touch, and he has to taste every inch. He pulls away momentarily to press a kiss under her ear, the base of her neck, nip the skin at the corner of her collarbone.

“Can I?”

His voice is more gravelly than he’d aimed for but Carrie is gratifyingly too flustered to care; she nods and sits up, gravity doing most of his work as the robe slips down. She’s beautiful, so beautiful; pert breasts, flat stomach, and plenty more hidden under the sheets. He takes his time exploring, finding out the different combination of noises she makes when he takes a nipple into his mouth and slides a finger into her, hot and wet and wanting, when he trails his fingers lightly down her side, when his fingers tug against her hair and he grinds his erection against her hip.

She reaches down, squeezes him through his boxers and he loses his breath for a second, aching for more.

“Carrie” he breathes, hips canting forwards instinctively as he twists two fingers inside her.

“Yes” she sighs, sliding down her underwear in case that wasn’t a clear enough invitation. He’s tempted, so fucking tempted to push into her right now and fuck her senseless but a tiny portion of his rational brain gives him pause.

“Carrie...”

“I want this” she says, sure and confident, “I’m not vulnerable or any of that bullshit. Quinn, I like you. I want this.”

He takes a deep breath, giving her a few more seconds to change her mind, and then flips her on top of him, admiring the view, hands resting on her hips. Unfazed, she lines herself up, pushing down slowly, her breath hitching.

“Fuck” he breathes reverently as she slides onto him, unbearably tight and hot. He catches her hips to keep her still, fighting to not lose control.

“Give me a second” he says tightly, and she smirks, twisting her hips around.

He sighs, releases his hold on her and lets her set her own rhythm. It’s an incredibly visual, watching her slide up and down, firm breasts bouncing in time with his thrusts. Something must tell in his face because she smiles and leans down to kiss him, changing the angle to something deeper as she braces her hands on his chest.

Feeling his control start to slip he slows his thrusts, deep and hard, and feels her legs tense. He grazes his teeth over a nipple and slides his hand between them, dragging his thumb lightly over her clit until her control has dissolved into a litany of gasps and expletives.

“Come for me, Carrie” he breathes hot in her ear, and bites down hard on the junction between her neck and shoulder as he begins to fuck her in earnest, bruising strokes.

She tenses around him, throws her head back and comes so hard he can feel her clench around him, the added tightness pushing him over the edge. His orgasm hits him like a whirlwind, seemingly endless as they cling tight to each other.

As his heart rate comes back to normal and he regains the power of lucid thought he expects her to pull away, to tell him it was a bad idea. He toys with exit strategies, toys with pretending his was drunk when her inevitable rejection comes. But somehow it doesn’t. Carrie gets up and uses the bathroom and then comes back to bed and plasters herself along his side, pressing an open mouthed kiss just on the borderline of being chaste to his neck.

“I don’t regret anything” she says, and then pauses, “I regret getting shot, actually. That’s kinda painful.”

He pulls her against his chest, stroking his hand down her back until it rests just above her hip. There’s a great sense of contentment in his chest, of being in the right place at the right time.

“What happens when we get back?” he asks, and then could immediately kick himself for the lack of subtlety. Carrie tenses fractionally, though doesn’t move away.

“What do you want to happen?” she asks, and he brushes the hair away from her face, kissing her slow and langurously, arousal stirring in him again.

“I want to get out” he said, not knowing the truth of the words until they had been said. “I want to live a normal civilian life where I don’t get shot and where I get to shower with you without a near death experience beforehand.”

She choked out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Really?”

“Yeah” he says softly, nose touching hers, “Really.”

She melts into his kiss, body warm and pliant against him, and he rolls on top of her, pinning her slender arms above her head.

“Look, I’m not the most stable bet, but...I think this could work.”

There’s uncertainty in Carrie’s eyes but she holds his gaze, and he thinks that maybe it’s herself she doesn’t trust rather than him.

“I’d like to try” she says, voice soft but certain, and arches up against him with a wicked smile. “Now are we done talking?”

As it happens, they’re done talking for the next several hours.

All in all, they will agree years later, a fairly successful final mission for them both.


End file.
